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Somehow I didn’t think he’d mind.
“He was never trained for this,” Radu added. “And it is not easy, in the best of times. And what he did—I am surprised he lasted as long as he did.”
“Then Mircea should have damned well waited until he woke up!”
Radu looked at him angrily. “Dory was under attack—”
“We’re under attack. The whole damned lot of us! We can’t afford to lose him, Radu!”
“As he could not afford to lose her.” Radu smoothed down his brother’s hair. “We have lost too many, through the years.”
“She was the one attacking him!”
Radu looked up, eyes glowing in fear or anger or pain—or all three. “You heard him. He said no.”
“He would,” Marlowe said, looking at me. And making me wonder if this hadn’t all been a waste. If I would even make it out of here alive.
Right now I didn’t care all that much. I didn’t care about anything but the blood dripping onto the sofa. Unused.
“It wasn’t you,” Radu said softly, turquoise eyes meeting mine.
“Then who?” I asked, my voice weaker now.
Because I was bleeding, too. I’d barely noticed, but slippery trails were trickling from my ears, down my neck, soaking the once fine material of th
e suit. More was filling my eyes, along with something else that I blinked away.
“Then who?” I demanded, louder.
“Mircea didn’t know,” Radu said softly, gaunt hand covering mine, where I gripped his brother’s shoulder.
No. My father’s. Where I held my father’s shoulder, I thought angrily, grasping it tighter. And somehow managing to be furious at myself, at everyone, at no one, all at the same time.
“He said he thought someone was using you for an anchor,” Radu told me. “That they were narrowing in on you as if you were their guide. In order to attack you.”
“What? How?”
“He didn’t say. He was concentrating on finding you; his reports were…sporadic. I’m sorry, Dory; I don’t know any more. When he wakes—”
“If he wakes,” Marlowe said, and then stopped.
As if there was nothing left to say.
No. NO, I thought, and shook the limp body in my arms, causing the head to fall back onto my shoulder. Tears splashed his face, mingled with the blood, streaked the perfect features that were marble-like in their beauty. And in their coldness. The tears were mine; I didn’t care.
“Drink,” I begged him, as the room grayed out and the rushing in my ears got louder and he just lay there, draped across my lap, Radu’s blood cascading down his chin.
So much power, so much life, right there, and he wouldn’t take it.
My anger suddenly found a target, and it was the man bleeding on the sofa. “Marlowe’s right. He should have left me,” I said harshly.
“You know he wouldn’t do that,” Radu admonished.
“Then he’s a fool.” My head was spinning, my temples pounding, but I didn’t care. I only cared about the man on the sofa. And the anger. So much anger bottled up for so many years, and finally spilling over.
“Coward,” I spat. “Fool and coward!”
“Dory!”
